


Dozing

by R00bs_Teacup



Series: sickfic where Porthos is sick because you know... [3]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-02
Updated: 2017-02-02
Packaged: 2018-09-21 15:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9555794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: Porthos is a bit poorly. Oh No! Athos will make better.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm good at summaries. Lol. Aramis isn't really in it, and it's not even explicitly poly fic, so if you don't like that, you can totes read this as Athos/Porthos.

Athos notices Porthos getting up, he’s only dozing. He wonders if it’s morning, but decides not. It’s too quiet, and too dark. Though, he has his eyes shut. He hums, stretching, enjoying the clean soft sheets against his skin, listens to his audiobook (some BBC crime thing. He switches from Harry Potter when he is actually not sleeping, rather than just having trouble getting off), and waits for Porthos to come back so he can get a cuddle. Porthos’s sleepy cuddles are lovely. Athos is careful not to actually wake up, and he’s drifting when Porthos climbs back in, dreaming, no longer actively waiting. 

“You awake?” Porthos whispers. Athos drifts a little closer to the surface and hums in vague acknowledgement of his awareness. “I was sick.”

“Mm?” Athos asks, resting a hand on Porthos’s stomach. Porthos is curled beside him, not yet under the duvet. Athos fumbles it over him. 

“Threw up,” Porthos says, butting his head against Athos’s shoulder. Athos wakes up a little more and rubs the side of Porthos’s belly, against the soft of his old cotton t-shirt. 

“You ok?” Athos asks. “Are you feeling poorly?”

“Not really. Sure I’m fine,” Porthos says. 

“Do you want me to get you a bowl?” Athos says. “In case you’re sick again?”

“Just want to sleep,” Porthos says, yawning, shifting himself closer to Athos, hands tucking up under Athos’s sleep shirt. “Help me?”

Athos wraps himself around Porthos and rubs soothingly over his stomach and the small of his back, stroking up into his hair, humming gently whenever Porthos shifts. It doesn’t take long for Porthos to go limp and relaxed and start little congested snoring. Athos feels his forehead, but Porthos is always hot when he sleeps and he can’t tell much. He’s been congested all weekend, Athos’s parents’ dog setting off his allergies. Athos frowns, resting a hand over the rise of Porthos’s stomach, but decides not to worry. He dozes again, drifting, listening to the mystery on his phone. He falls asleep at some point, light and restless but actual sleep. He wakes to Porthos making an unhappy noise and burrowing in close, head under the duvet, trying to get right into Athos’s space. Athos yawns and stretches, but that makes Porthos make a grouchy, miserable sound, hands clutching, so Athos puts his arms back around. Porthos is tense, sweaty. 

“Not feeling good?” Athos murmurs. 

Porthos shakes his head and snuffles, then lets out a series of disgusting, wet sneezes. Athos cradles the back of his head, when he’s done, keeping him close, and feels around under the pillows until he finds a packet of tissues. He gets a few out one handed and gives them to Porthos. Who puts barely any space between them to blow his nose. Athos rubs Porthos’s scalp .

“Are you feeling sick, this morning?” Athos asks. 

“I threw up twice more,” Porthos says. 

“You didn’t wake me,” Athos says, surprised. He’d thought he was barely asleep, but he must’ve been deeper.

“You kind of half woke up. You haven’t been sleeping,” Porthos says. “I’m fine. I think it’s something I ate. Your Mum makes her own food and hardly has an extensive list of allergens.”

“She might’ve put milk or cheese in something without thinking,” Athos agrees. “I should go check.”

“No, no. I’m fine. Just leave it, yeah? I don’t want people to know,” Porthos says, pressing his face to Athos’s chest, burrowing further under the blankets. “‘S’cause ‘m fat.”

“Or because you have food intolerances,” Athos says, pulling the duvet down because he doesn’t want Porthos to stifle himself out of embarrassment. “But ok.How’s your stomach now?”

“Bit unsettled, not gonna be eating four course meals, but I’m not gonna vomit, either,” Porthos says. “The sinus headache is worse. I feel kinda crappy.”

“Mm. Stay in bed a bit, hm? We can go down for breakfast late, maybe they’ll have gone off on that walk and we can have the house to ourselves.”

“I’m not having sex in your parents’ livingroom,” Porthos says, pulling away and putting a little space between them. “Stop trying to wrangle it.”

“I’ve already had sex there, anyway,” Athos says. Porthos makes an interested (and kinda of disgusted) noise. Athos smiles, and cradles Porthos’s cheek a moment. “I love you.”

“Ok,” Porthos says. “Tell me about sex in the livingroom.”

“In college, I was seventeen. My boyfriend was over and my parents were out of town. We took Thomas to his friend’s for a sleepover, and just… didn’t make it up here. He wanted to give me road head, and described it.”

“Oh? Who was he?”

“You’ve met him,” Athos says, laughing. “His name is Aramis.”

“Oh. Athos! That’s not hot! Aramis? Really? You and Aramis had sofa sex? Well I can’t let that go by. Fine, fine. We will have sex on your sofa. But you’ve gotta be quick, ok?”

Athos laughs, wrapping his arms around Porthos’s head. 

“You daft, silly, competitive darling,” Athos says, smacking a kiss to Porthos’s hair. “I’m completely seduced. Ready to go.”

Athos humps Porthos’s thigh in a friendly manner, and Porthos flails a hand until it makes contact with Athos, and grumbles. Athos shifts so Porthos can lie with his head on Athos’s biceps, and looks at him, at Porthos looking up, head tilted, breathing through his mouth, eyes pink, looking so tired and very lovely. Athos hums and rubs his shoulder, rests a hand against his stomach, bends his neck so they can kiss. Porthos ruins the moment by sneezing. 

“Ble-” Athos starts, but Porthos cuts him off with a gasp and a series of violent sneezes. “Oh, bless you, honey. Tissue?”

“Please,” Porthos says, face scrunched. He sneezes again, and Athos pulls him gently closer, cradling his head. 

“That sounds like it hurts,” Athos murmurs, finding the tissues and handing them over while Porthos finishes off his fit with a few coughs. “Go hop in the shower, I’ll get the mini-hoover out, open a window, see if that helps.”

“It’s just morning congestion,” Porthos says. “Don’t wanna move.”

“OK, stay here and suffer, see if I care,” Athos says. 

In the end, they spend most of the morning in bed, Porthos resting and Athos babying him when he feels bad. They eventually get up and head down to the kitchen, but everyone’s gone, leaving just a note. It makes Athos smile, and turn to Porthos. Who’s right behind him, head down and snuffling, one arm around himself, the other holding Athos’s t-shirt. He’s wearing his xxxxl t-shirt which swamps even his large body, and his joggers that are so old they’re see-through at the knees. Athos beams at him, and Porthos groans, but slogs to the living-room and spreads himself on the sofa invitingly. Athos goes to make coffee and toast, and when he gets back Porthos is sound asleep. Athos smiles, takes a photo to Whatsapp to Aramis, then tucks himself around Porthos, resolving to keep him resting and comfortable.


End file.
